


To Be The Good Daughter

by SugerG



Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Syndicate - Fandom
Genre: Bent Rules, Child Abuse, F/M, Gentle Hearted, Gentle/Rough Touches, Getting back into reading/writing, Happy Ending, Historical, Mental/Emotional/Physical Abuse, Music/Piano Playing, Nature Versus Nurture, Symbolism, Victorian era, industrial era, victorian romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:02:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18362837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugerG/pseuds/SugerG
Summary: Crawford has one child -- a daughter by the name of Catherine. Said woman is known to very few; only Crawford's inner circle and most trusted Templars know of her existence. Just over two decades old, and she never left Starrick Estate. Her father forbids it; she is protected there. While she is half of Crawford, she is half her mother too. If Crawford nurtured the side he created, she might not be so  Romantic.Sending her out into London, as a sort of secret weapon, to lure in Jacob Frye will undoubtedly hurt someone. If not everyone.***Please, be aware that there is "hinted" child abuse in Chapter One -- and possibly upcoming chapters. Physical, yes. And mental/emotional if you squint. Take care of yourselves if it triggers you. You are far more important than this story. Tags maybe edited later on for a better fit.***





	1. Invisible Piano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that I'm done with college, I'm getting back into creative writing! Pursuing a non-education English degree opened my eyes to multiple books. The Victorian Era being one of them. Reading novels like Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein", Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice", and Elizabeth Gaskell's "North and South" just makes me feel so many emotions that I need to write again.  
> While I may not have played AC:S (yet), I feel like this story is clear and linear enough for me to stay focused. I want this to be a Romance, I want Jacob-everyone good to get their happy ending. And while some of my 21st American word choices may show, I ask that we all be patient with the upcoming updates. Furthermore, I do not own any of the AC:S characters: Jacob/Evie Frye, Crawford Starrick, Henry Green, Lucy Thorne, Pearl Attaway, etc. etc. The idea that Crawford Starrick has a 24 year old daughter, Catherine Starrick, is my own. Just as the Northcotts are.
> 
> **Please, be aware that there's "hinted" child abuse in this chapter. Physical, yes. Mental/emotional if you squint. Take care of yourselves if it triggers you. You are far more important than this story. Tags edits may change with upcoming chapters.**

On the outskirts of London stood Starrick Estate; a dark and dismal place, with spots of bright red uniforms prowling the estate like apex predators as the only form of life. Far from any road or any source of friendly company, all light seemed to fade away the closer one got to the manor. The only source of hope for those weaker of heart was the sound of a piano. Through the thick walls and cracked windows, there were melodies that seemed to have no end. They floated across the grounds at all hours of the day. 

Crawford Starrick sat in his office as he half listened to the reports of London – of his many business endeavors. Had it not been for the movement of his fingers, one might have thought him asleep, for he closed his eyes to pay more attention to the distant music his daughter played in the drawing room. Catherine’s piano playing was perfect now, he noted. He could not remember the last time he corrected her lines. Some of his fondest memories were of him and her seated in front of the grand piano, their fingers gliding over the black and white teeth. Her feet could not reach the pedals just yet. When she would hit a wrong key, she looked up at him with her bright brown eyes and a pout on her lips. “I’m sorry, Papa,” she often said with a quiver in her voice.

Crawford would simply cover her tiny hand with his larger one and guide her fingers as was needed. “Like this.”

Now she could play for hours without him. It was no song he recognized; simply a melody that she created. Such a tune was untouched by the grievances of the world – blind and hopeful for the future. Almost longing. Many a maid said how their delicate hearts bled for the woman of twenty-four summers. Not married—not even a devilishly handsome suitor at her doorstep. Although, some said, that William’s eyes had lingered far too long in such and such a time. Worse yet, Catherine’s only forms of companionship were the older Northcott girls – Elizabeth and Charlotte – the help. The three women were of similar age, and Crawford made sure the young and only Mr. Northcott had no interest in his only child. He would not lose such a treasure—not again. Thoughts of that nature lingered in the back of his mind whenever Catherine first entered a room. While Crawford did note his few similarities in her, she looked so much more like her late mother. Mrs. Starrick’s likeness was in the entryway of the estate in the form of an enormous portrait. Within the portrait was a young Mr. Starrick, tall and proud, behind an equally youthful Mrs. Starrick, who held their new baby girl. Mrs. Starrick was a woman of Victorian beauty; the kindness of her soul reached out to her worldly appearance. Her stature was perfect as her dark joyful eyes just fell at Mr. Starrick’s shoulder. Whispering women were jealous of her ivory, unblemished, and soft skin; and no one dared to mention her bosom, for it was very improper. But, how could they ignore them when her long dark hair was always pulled back to bring attention to them? Only a few strands framed her oval face and small ears. At least she would have gotten wrinkles with all the smiling her pouty pink lips did; pity, her cheeks were dimpled and her teeth a pearly white. In that particular painting, her smooth hands were cradling her newborn babe; rather than, focused at the column of her white neck or shoulder. A band of bright red ribbon with white lace trimming wraps around her neck, the brooch was a dark red surrounded by white with silver birdcage engraved inside. Up until the birth of Catherine, that choker was her treasure.

It was a dreadful morning when Mr. Starrick found his wife dead in the nursery.

“Find me a painter,” he said softly, staring off ahead of him, with a wailing Catherine in his arms, “and a wet nurse.”

There were only a few servants at the time of Catherine’s birth. The Northcott family nearly doubled the staff – a husband at the time, a wife, a son, and twin girls. Crawford knew had it not been for Catherine, the Northcott family would no longer be on the estate years later. Moreover, that they would not live a happy life off the estate, for the eldest Mr. Northcott died when Catherine was only five. It was a horrible factory accident, which the Starricks should not bother with, but sweet Catherine had inherited her mother’s kind soul as well. 

“Papa,” Catherine said as she tugged on his trousers, “please let Mrs. Northcott stay. She is very kind and considerate. She knows an awful lot—she could be the Nanny! A nurse even! The boys are always getting hurt, aren’t they? William loves the horses; he could help Sam. He’s getting really old now, isn’t he? Lizzie and Lottie could help the others in the estate; cooking, cleaning, and such. Please, Papa, don’t let them go.” Tears welled up in those large eyes of hers. 

Crawford thought it over as he petted his daughter’s hair. The Northcotts had packed what little belongings they accrued over the handful of years and stood in the doorway with their eyes glancing between father and daughter. Catherine had grown fond of them, however, not to the point where she viewed them as her playthings as many girls of her social standing would have. She once called Mary Northcott “Mummy” in her giggling voice. Crawford was quick to hit the word back from her vocabulary. Words of that nature were only reserved for his late wife.

Even so, they stayed and worked. Only William was allowed to leave the estate for hours on end. He subtly brought the littlest Northcott – Jane – with him in his endeavors when not tasked with escorting the Grand Master to his locations. Had Mary been born of a higher social standing she might have been a governess. Alas, she was not, and became a sort of nanny to Catherine. Elizabeth and Charlotte were primarily kitchen maids, but were stationed wherever Catherine needed them after her studying. The newest Northcott normally worked out in the garden or with her brother in the stables. On certain days of the week, this family and Lucy Thorne would meet a half dozen or so Blighters at the estate’s front gates to receive any needed items within the household. 

It was at these hours Catherine could not be seen nor heard. She had, of course, grown used to this over the years. During her earlier years, the governess would tell her to read or sew. Sewing was not her forte, often she accidentally pricked her finger with the needle, and so Romance novels had become the best form of escapism for her. Her heart yearned for such companionship, for a love so wonderful that she herself may change for the better and her lover as well. They almost seemed like fairytales. William had always said she could meet whomever she wished in London.

“You know I cannot leave the estate,” she told him once. “Father forbids it.”

“Catherine,” he had taken to calling her by her Christian name in private company, at her insistence, “you have my word that no one will know.”

“Father forbids it,” she repeated and started playing the piano in a haunting tune. Even so, thoughts of the city, seeming so far away despite her father’s business there, floated in her head.

 

The reports of London were just a bit more bearable when she played her piano. Just underneath Crawford’s mustache was the hint of a smile. His left hand stilled, coming to rest on his thigh. The right remained up as he read his letters. Three words came up again – the Frye twins. Particularly, Jacob Frye. He had been killing Templar gang leaders, or assisting the police in arresting them, liberating his factories, and leading gang wars in the streets. The change in Crawford’s operations was minor, but it was a change he did not want to see.

If Crawford did not find a way to stop the Frye twins, they could destroy everything.

“After they killed Ferris and Sir David, Grand Master, they only been worse to—”

“Mary,” Crawford said without looking in her direction. The man in front of him stopped talking, perplexed by the mention of the old woman’s name.

“Yes, Grand Master Starrick?”

“Bring my daughter to me, now, if you please.”

“Yes, Grand Master Starrick.” Mary curtsied at her boss before leaving the room. Over the two decades of her stay in Starrick estate, her feet had gotten quick and she moved as if she were a highborn lady. Not even her skirts dared to make a sound. It was rather unfortunate that her slippers gave away the speed at which she walked now.

_Clip-cloc-clip-cloc-clip-cloc_

The other maids, young and spire as they are, made certain to stay out of Mary’s way when she walked in such a manner. Even her daughters knew better.

The woman of fifty or so years headed towards the drawing room, indicated by the piano playing. Mary had help raise Miss Starrick along with her own two girls, and over the years, they all have become the best of friends. Her girls often snuck into Miss Starrick’s chambers when they were younger to gossip and giggle late into the night. That is, up until Master Starrick put two squarely built men in front of her doors one late evening. Master Starrick’s henchmen coming to the Northcotts’ doorstep was merely luck. Mary and her husband had to go to work, thus they had the twins strapped to their chests with William at their side. Those men had ordered they pack their things and leave their home. “You will have good work there,” one said. “There is a starving babe,” said the other. The promise of good pay and solid holdings made them leave their home that night.  
Upon arriving at the estate, William nearly burst with excitement.

“We get to live here?” he bounced in the carriage, blue eyes sparkling.

“Yes,” his father said placing a heavy hand on the boy’s shoulder, “but you must behave yourself. These are business people, we mustn’t be rude. Think of your sisters and this other babe.”

“Miss Catherine Starrick,” Mary corrected.

The young miss nearly did starve. Mary wasn’t her mother; she smelled and tasted different. Either Lizzie or Lottie was in the opposite arm, as well. In his rising ire, Master Starrick almost sent for another new mother. As fortune would have it that next morning, before Mary fed her own daughters, Catherine suckled by herself. A few weeks later, Mary was able to double breastfeed with Catherine.

The girls grew up together not bothered by class as the governess tried to teach the young Miss Starrick. All of the girls would giggle at her words. Lizzie and Lottie stood in front of Catherine with filthy clothes and their golden curls a tangled mess of flower petals. “We’ve adopted her as our sister! She’s the lost Northcott!” Lizzie cried with her fist in the air. Lottie’s fist shot up alongside her sister. Catherine, not quite as filthy as the other two, squealed out her laughter.

“Lost Northcott,” she shouted over her governess’ cries. Catherine chanted those two words as she ran away from the “old batty woman with a stick up her arse” as Adam once said.

Mary watched as Catherine ran about the gardens with her dark hair whipping behind her.

“Catherine,” Master Starrick’s voice boomed from the doorway, and everything stopped. “Come inside. It’s time for your lessons.”

“Yes, Papa.” 

He would then proceed to pick the bits of grass and flower petals out of her hair. Reprimanding her as he stood above her. “Your mother would be very disappointed in you.”

“I’m sorry, Papa.”

None of the Northcotts could say anything in this exchange. They were allowed to stay, but could be thrown out at a moment’s notice. In one horrid moment, Mary had to bite her tongue to keep her silence. In another, she had to pull William away from the young miss as the governess smacked her head for not standing just so. Unfortunately, one evening, Lizzie and Lottie heard Catherine’s stifled cries in her bedroom. Once they entered the room, she shushed up, but she still sniffled and there were tear marks down her soft face. At their persistence, young Miss Starrick removed her hands from under the duvet to reveal her beaten hands. The Northcott twins reported this to their parents, and Mary reported this to Master Starrick.

No one saw nor heard of the governess afterwards.

Particular lessons took their root. Miss Starrick no longer ran about to chase the chickens or played with the Northcott children. She stopped any attempts to help the other servants. Throughout her entire childhood, even now, she stood under her father and mother’s portrait when Master Starrick’s inner circle visited. 

“You look more and more like your mother every time I see you,” they often said. “It’s a pity she died because of you.”

Catherine remained still at their words, motionless as a few pinched her cheek. “Thank you,” she would reply.

 

Mary could see the resemblance now that Miss Starrick was older. It’s mostly in her nose, lips, chin, and neck. Her bone structure was a blend of her parents – a tad sharper than her mother, but far softer than her father – with eyes unfocused unless spoken to in a direct manner. Probably recalling a moment in a book she once read or conjuring up some fanciful situation. 

The stout older woman gazed upon Miss Starrick as she continued to play at the piano. Unlike so many noble young ladies, including her late mother, there was not a strand of hair out of place on Catherine’s head. Lottie made sure to braid the miss’s long hair and style it just so with elegant pearls pinned into her mane. The tresses almost resembled a crown. If her father let her attend any parties, Miss Starrick surely would have heard the envious whispers of her pale skin contrasting beautifully with her dark hair and constricting gowns. Master Starrick did not allow his daughter to dress in simple muslin or housedresses; they are too grand for such fashion. Even her traveling gowns were limited. 

“Miss Starrick,” Mary called out.

“Yes?” Catherine did not open her eyes or rise to greet the older woman. Her fingers continue to dance across the keys. 

“Your father wishes to speak with you in his study.”

“Yes, of course.” The song she was playing came to a natural end, despite not being a classic. Much like a ghost, Catherine rose from the bench with a wink from the red choker wrapped around her neck. The ruffles on her bustle flowed down into their proper placement similar to a bow. 

Catherine walked a few steps ahead of Mary down the corridor. It was a slow and dignified walk, as to not disrupt the very air around her person. No words were spoken between them for a time; only a few remaining servants bow or curtsey to her as they passed.

“What does my father wish to speak with me about?”

“I’m not entirely sure, Miss, but if I had to guess it would be the Frye twins.” Mary kept her gaze just past Catherine’s arm.

An elegant brow quirked up at this inquiry. Even so, Catherine did not look back. “The Frye twins?”

“Assassins, Miss. They have been disrupting Master Starrick’s business endeavors.”

Catherine hums. What could her father possibly want of her with Assassins? She knew of the Templar and Assassin world, but was told to never worry about it. Only to pay attention to her studies – that were outside her father’s Templar business. “Why don’t you run along and read those Romance novels of yours,” Miss Thorne once said before shutting the door in her face. It was only because Catherine loved her books so much that was what she did; not out of spite. That would be improper of someone in her standing.

“Do you know why my father wishes to speak with me?”

“I haven’t the foggiest clue. They always make sure I leave the room before they speak of such plans.” Mary now stood between Catherine and the study’s doors. There was an argument behind those doors. For a fleeting moment, Catherine wished she could press her ear against the door to listen what was being said. Unfortunately, Mary knocked firmly three times before opening the door.

“Miss Catherine Starrick,” she announced to the room of Templars.

All eyes fell on the young woman in deep crimson.


	2. Not a Hair out of Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are doubts and fears in everyone, and Crawford Starrick does not get desperate. Catherine is a part of him, so surely she is perfect for his plan.

“Catherine,” Crawford greeted from behind his desk. He remained seated as his eyes flitted across her form – a straight back with manicured hands folded in front; without a wrinkle on her dress – before his gaze lingered on the red choker wrapped snuggly around her neck. It was a distant and bittersweet memory, to see the dark red gem gleam against the stark engraving on something that was part of his late wife. The gem made him recall all the fond memories he had her. Only for them to bleed away whenever he lifted his gaze to meet his daughter’s soft expression. The corners of her lips barely pointed upward at the feeling of his intent look. _Pristine._ The dress he bought her fell to the floor and hugged what lay under her foot. Catherine’s natural beauty required no makeup and with her hair pulled away, everyone could read her bare face. There was not even a wrinkle on her forehead or around her mouth. She was as Crawford wanted her to be.

“Thank you, Mary, you may leave. James, as well.” The manservant bowed to his master and took his leave.

Mary curtsied to the Grand Master and gave a fleeting look of farewell to Miss Starrick before closing the door.

“Father,” Catherine curtsied to him with a polite smile. “Miss Thorne,” a nod of recognition was directed at the female Templar. Catherine known Lucy Thorne all her life and did not have the fondest memories of the woman. The young missus loves Mary far more – and had wished Father would marry her for a brief span of time in her childhood. “Always a pleasure to see you. How are you this sunny afternoon?”

“Wonderful,” Miss Thorne sneered out. “Yourself?”

“Just the same.” Catherine had quite the practice of acting nice to her sort of character. _Always smile, my dear,_ her governess once said, _even if you cannot stand their company._

Catherine folded her hands in front of herself once more and stood with perfect stature. “You wished to speak with me, Father?” 

“Yes,” he rose from his chair to stare out the window behind him. Crawford’s estate was square, green, and immaculate. It was peaceful here. A paradise. If the control he exuded did not take London in waves it bled inch by inch. “What do you know of the Templar Order?”

Their motto floated through Catherine’s head: “May the Father of Understanding guide us.” She had never held such words close to her. She much preferred Jane Austen’s _Pride and Prejudice_ words – “The distance is nothing, when one has a motive.”

“They seek a perfect world, brought on by order.” Despite her answering, her gaze remained just past his shoulder. She could see so much greenery behind him. Perhaps she should practice her art in the square later today? Paint the evening sky or all passersby?

“Do you know how?”

“Starrick—” Miss Thorne tried to injected.

Crawford asked his question again with a stress on his child’s name. A cold stare was directed at his most trusted companion; thus, silencing her.

Hearing such emphasize on her name, Catherine’s gaze moved to meet her father. 

“I must confess, Father, that I do not fully know how they achieve such a feat.” Disappointed in herself, Catherine stared at the floor before her. Her feet shuffled beneath her skirts for a moment. She had attempted to learn of the Order— _wanted_ to learn, if only to spend more time with her father, but she was always cast aside. Left to study and ponder the “finer and delicate things” of life. Now that the desire long since left, she was being asked such questions? That hardly seemed fair to her. Even so, the guilt wrapped tightly around her. She should have tried harder. Read the books in her father’s library, asked James, or something of that matter. Yet, she only did things to please her father and Grand Master.

Brought on by the confession, Miss Thorne stepped forward with a growl in her voice. “Crawford, you cannot possibly think that she could be of any help to us?”

“I do.” 

Catherine remained perfectly still when her father placed his gloved hands on her shoulders. He squeezed them in a tight fatherly manner – a father proud of their child for some unseen reason – with a cold emanating through the fabric. Those hands were once unprotected by the soft black leather. She remembered that they once guided hers across the piano keys, tucked her into bed, and guided her across the ballroom floor many years ago. He was smiling then. _When had he put on those gloves,_ she wondered. For such a small change in attire, his hands seemed so alien to her as of late. 

Crawford cradled her face, so that she may focus solely on him. His thumbs brushed along her cheeks. The gesture made her smile, but her honey colored eyes remained unfocused. The only light in them came from the sun, shining through the study’s large tinged window.

“My Catherine,” Crawford started, “you are the shining treasure in my life. Pure and bright. Your mother would be so proud of the woman you have become.”

“Thank you, Father.” An automatic response.

“Your mother had little dealings with the Order, just as you do.” His thumbs stopped their caresses. “Our situation has changed; I want you to be a part of this. The British Rite. This Order. My Order. I want you to assist me in bringing order to London, to learn of these Frye twins and how they operate, to distract them from our doings. They are a nuisance that I want to you stop.”  
Catherine blinked owlishly at the man before her. The things he said did not take long to take root in her mind. A light of her own making shone in her eyes. “How can I assist you, Father?” she spoke softly. She was sure if she spoke any louder she would wake up.

Crawford let go of her face, only to have one arm slide across her shoulders. He walked her up to his desk where sketches of the Frye twins lie bathed in sunlight. Both of their faces were shrouded under their hoods, but what little Catherine saw she could only assume that they were around her age. The female had freckles and no noticeable scars; whereas, the male had a scar on the left side of his jaw and dark brown sideburns that almost seemed like a beard.

With a delicate and trembling touch, Catherine placed a finger on the male’s picture. She just barely traced the outline of his hood, before she skimmed over the scar. Both of the characters terrified her, this man more so for some unknowable reason. From what little she had learnt about assassins, she gathered they were ruthless killers. Be it kings and queens or a trader, they killed without thought or emotion. Assassins were blind to the consequences of their actions. Their one goal, she gathered, was to stop the Templars. They practically sounded like a spoiled child.

Her father leaned down, and whispered in her ear, “That is Jacob Frye. I want you to smile at him, wave at him, be the woman I raised you to be. Full of wit and charm and innocence.”

Catherine picked up the sketch of the male Frye. The paper barely shook in her hand. “How can I do that from here?” There was no malice or ill-will in her tone, simply wonder. If not her entire life than surely most of it has been spent within the estate grounds – she could not even venture to the front gates – as other young ladies, she was sure. Should she write mysterious letters? Send flowers? Both? All from her home? And where does he place his head at night? Her eyes remained focused on the image before her; wanting to learn more about him. He seemed like a rough sort of fellow. Perhaps William knew where to find him?

The question sent Crawford up to his normal stance. The thought of his daughter—his only daughter—willingly leaving his estate made his mind reel in rage. Catherine was a gentle girl that read Romance novels, played the piano, and painted. She was not Miss Thorne or her Aunt Pearl, and certainly she was nothing like the Northcott girls. Yet, she was a part of him and he was ambitious. With his and that despicable governess’s guidance, she had never spoken out of turn and never raised her voice in conversation. (She was, for all intents and purposes, the perfect Victorian woman.) Those serving the estate eagerly had done what she had asked of them, regardless of her family name. There was a charm about her, more than his fatherly pride could ever know of. It was a special, inward charm that could ensnare any one. This Jacob Frye would be of no issue to her.

“You go out into the city,” Crawford said softly.

Catherine’s hand stopped trembling. She looked up at him with wide eyes.

From behind the father and daughter, Miss Thorne sighed out her aggravation. 

“You will go to London and you will learn,” Crawford sneered at the sketch, “how that boy operates. Learn what they plan to do. How they plan to stop our Order, so we may avoid any unwanted incidences. They have already conquered Whitechapel, and have made advances on the City of London.” The flutter of fear must have been visible on Catherine’s face, for her father smiled at her and brushed away a nonexistent strand of hair from her face. “Do not fret. There are other boroughs, and the City is large; they cannot take it all too soon. I have faith in you, my Catherine. Break this boy, and his precious Creed.”

“Yes, Father.”

“May the Father of Understanding guide us.”

Catherine could not say those words, but she smiled at her father nonetheless with a glimmer in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excluding the title, this chapter was 1,669 words and I dunno how I feel about that.
> 
> What do you guys think of this chapter?


	3. Every Line, Every Stroke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note quite readying for battle, but knowing the enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to offer my sincerest apologies. The last couple of weeks have left me in a brain fog. I graduated college, which involved all sorts of ceremonies, and my brother is moving away fairly soon. Not only that, my muse is divided between this story and my Dragon Age fic "Sunflowers of Kirkwall". It's gonna be _really_ difficult.
> 
> Enjoy!

Biting the tip of her tongue, Miss Thorne watched as Starrick led his daughter out of his personal library. He told her to study the sketches before she left with the coachman, and not to bring them with her. There was a faint, “Yes, Father,” as the lord of the house closed the door.

When the Grand Master turned around to walk back to his desk, Thorne spoke with venom in her voice.

“You cannot possibly believe that—”

“Miss Thorne—”

“She is a child!”

“ **My** child!” he roared, punching the desk in a fit of protective rage. “My blood flows through her veins. I have taught her—raised her to be the young woman you saw. I have given her the best education. The best books. The best music and language. She has spent far more time with me, than she did her mother. God rest her soul. Catherine will not falter in the orders I have given her; she will do as she is told, as she is accepted to as I raised her.” His voice softened the more he spoke; envisioning the perfect outcome of Catherine’s actions. Ensnaring the Jacob Frye would take less than a year, he was sure of it. Catherine is perfect, just like her late mother.

Miss Thorne flushed an angry pink. She bit back every retort that danced across her tongue. It was a vile, bitter taste. The girl is a part of him, yes, but there was far more of her mother than of Crawford. That woman, from what little time Miss Thorne spent with her, was nothing but pretty looks, a weak heart, and a dreamer’s mind. It was rather unfortunate that that was passed down to her daughter. Not once did Miss Thorne hear the girl speak out, demand something, or even speak of any business endeavors. Lucy hopes, for Crawford’s sake, that she will not die some unfortunate death.

“I am sure,” Miss Thorne spoke with great difficulty, “that Miss Starrick will do as you told her to.”

“As am I. Fetch James if you please, we still have other matters to discuss.” Crawford sat behind his desk, gathering the papers that were once lost under the Frye twins.

“Of course.”

 

Loud, shrill squeals ripped past Catherine’s closed bedroom doors. Lizzie and Lottie ran back and forth between their mistress’s closet and bed. Many a shade of red cuts through the air and lands haphazardly about the room. Had any of them a morbid mind, one of them might have noted how gruesome a crimson gown looked splayed across the floor or bed. 

They all had walked so calmly to Catherine’s chambers, but, once she said she is going out into the city, the Northcott twins went positively mad. Each voiced their opinion on what she should wear, as she sat calmly by the window, one twin trying to best the other. 

“You’ll be traveling by carriage, correct? Something with a slim silhouette is best.” Lizzie said with twirl of one of the few traveling dresses.

“Then why did we pull out all of those?” Lottie asked, pointing an accusatory finger at the other gowns and numerous petticoats.

“She still needs to look beautiful. Oh! Wouldn’t you look at this purple one?” Lizzie throws the red travel dress to the floor, so that they may look at the rich violet gown with black lace trim.

“It is beautiful,” Catherine spoke softly. “Will it be safe enough to ride with?” She cannot remember the last time she was in a carriage. Perhaps when she was five? Or nine? Surely younger than thirteen. What if the silk rips? Her father and aunt would be very displeased with her if that were to happen.

“Hmmm,” Lizzie glowered down at the dress; trying to picture the Lost Northcott stepping out of the carriage and walking the streets of London in it. From what William had told them, rich ladies always seem to draw unwanted attention. “Perhaps purple is not the right color. What else, what else?” Lizzie turns back to the closet, tapping her pursed lips.

“Perhaps lilac or a light blue?” Lottie offered from her side of the wardrobe. “Something to go with the parasol and gloves.”

The folded up sketches of the twin assassins barley crinkle as Catherine clutched onto the only pair of gloves she owned. They were a soft linen material, though hardly ever worn, and a stark white against her gown. The white, lace parasol leans against her thigh; its weight becoming more notable the more time they spend thinking of a dress to wear out.

“Those aren’t practical enough! What if mud splashes up on her?”

“You know William won’t let that happen.”

“Is there anything brown?” Jane piques up, startling her older sisters. Catherine hides her smile behind a delicate hand; she saw her enter the room quiet as a shadow.

“Don’t scare us like that!” Lizzie and Lottie shout. Lizzie tosses a small hat at the muddied up Jane, to which the youngest catches with ease and places on the bed.

“Please, be careful, Jane. There are silks.”

“Why would she have neutral colors such as brown to begin with?” Lottie asked, eyeing her youngest sister.

“Because it makes the most sense for traveling. And if these are silks, then why are they on the floor?” Nevertheless, Jane prances about – practically dancing between each fallen dress until she is in front of Catherine. “William is readying the horses. I told him to use Ellie and Sunny, after he cleans up a bit.”

“Wonderful,” Catherine said with a gentle smile, “but how did you know? You weren’t in my father’s study.” Her smile gains a small bit of wickedness.

“I certainly wasn’t eavesdropping, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Jane plops down beside the daughter of the estate.

“Perish the thought. I would never accuse you of such a thing.”

“Good!” Jane sat, swinging her legs, as her sisters rummaged around her mistress’s wardrobe. They’re two blonde blobbed heads amongst a sea of dark clothing. Catherine doesn’t have any sensible colors for the streets; brown, beige, or even green. Stains were bound to happen on the rich colors. Yet, reds or purples would draw too much attention to her person—her class. Jane hoped the missus would choose the light blue with white; plenty of young ladies wore that color. It would suit her gentle demeanor just as well.

“Are you nervous?” Jane spoke in a soft tone, as Lottie pulled out a light blue silk.

Catherine glanced at the corner of the papers in her lap. “Terrified.”

“That’s good, it means you’ll be smart, but know William will protect you. He’ll show you what London has to offer. Just stay away from any urchins and stay with him. You’ll be fine.”

“Urchins?”

Lizzie pulls out a daffodil yellow with a flourish and squeal. “I’ve never seen this one!”

Catherine forgot she had that gown; it was a gift from an acquaintance of her father some odd years ago. The amount of coin he must have spent was not lost on her. Though unlikely, it might not even fit her now. It was a shame that her father, aunt, and his guests always seem to prefer her in dark reds or purples.

“Yeah, urchins. They’ll rob you blind.”

“And how do you know this?” The smile that once left her lips, tugs at a corner of her mouth once more. She glances down at her side with an arched brow.

Jane’s cheeks flush pink, but she smiles at the fond memories of stowing away in the carriage’s storage compartment and William chasing after the street children. “It happens to my brother from time to time.”

“Still?” A scandalous, mocking gasp.

“Still.” An all too real devious giggle. “I think he knows some of them by name now.”

An image of William running after children, demanding his belongings back, was a humorous thought to conjure up. The things he must say during those instances made her blush. Perhaps he thought of chasing them on horseback? However, that might seem a bit much for a group of children.

When poor, old Samuel died, Crawford promoted young William as coachman. The boy spent his entire life on the estate, serving the Starricks, that it made sense to promote him rather than hire someone from outside. While the servants respected the late Sam, they love William. He respects the other hands; knows what it was like to be at the very bottom. Helps them with the horses and carriages; he works until sweat drips from his brow and his darker blonde hair is matted to his head. When her father needs to go to London, or some other far away city, it is always William that escorts him to and from his destinations. He always came back with a grand story of what he had seen during the travel and a small trinket for the women in his life. (With an added kiss to his mother’s temple.) The stories he told always seemed so wonderful, but always just out of Catherine’s reach. 

Her stomach felt as though it held a hundred butterflies. To go out, into a city she has only ever heard and read about and seen pictures of, made her sit just a little straighter. She would witness her own grand stories. See, hear, and taste things that she never did before.

_What does Mr. Frye look like again?_ In all her excitement, his face was even starting to fade from her mind.

Carefully, as to not completely disrupt the air in the room, Catherine unfolded the sketch of the male assassin. _Pale golden skin, dark patchy facial hair, and a long scar on the left side of his face. From his cheekbone to his jaw line._ The artist had his lips form a rather arrogant smirk, too, but that scar would be the most noticeable feature. Surely not many men in London have facial scars. She would have to memorize at least this portion of his face before she left. Her father wants her to hurt him; not his softer looking sister.

Worrying her bottom lip, Catherine stared at him; desperately wanting to burn this image in her mind’s eye. _Shrouded, dark, overconfident, and a scar just so. Whitechapel, too._ She would, rather unfortunately, have to stop there first. The Frye twins might still be there. And if the stories Charles Dickens wrote about there were true, she would dare not leave William’s side. 

“What are you looking at?” Jane asked, leaning in close.

“Nothing,” Catherine was quick to fold up the paper once more.

“Didn’t look like nothing.”

“Catherine,” Lottie called before she could retort, “we’ve narrowed down your choices. Which would you like to wear?”

After placing her parasol to the side, Catherine rose up, keeping a firm grip on the papers and gloves, and walked over to her bed. A light blue with off-white trimming, the daffodil yellow, and a lilac with black trims. The black would surely not match with her needed accessories, but it would make her father happy if she wore it. The black might even match with the red of her choker; whereas, the delicate add-ons would match the white of her choker. An item that her father refuses she ever take off. _“It belonged to your mother,” he once said as he clipped it back around her neck, “No matter the dress she wore, she never took it off. I want you to wear it; it’d be a shame for her memory to gather dust in the attic.”_

“The lilac, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lottie set to work putting the other dresses away. Lizzie did as well, but with the barest hint of a pout as her favorite gown was not picked. She would have looked so beautiful. 

Afterwards, the twins made quick work of stripping Catherine down to her undergarments. They had perfected this sort of dance over the years; now they never knock into the mistress’s cage crinoline or accidently knock her with an elbow. While Catherine stared at her target’s sketch, she was led by Lottie’s gentle grip to turn, lift, or stop. Lizzie quickly fixed Catherine’s many petticoats – took off two – before she and her sister brought the lilac forward. Catherine folded up the paper once more and slid it in her black and silver corset. The taffeta gown floated down her person, falling into place like water once she stood up properly. The sleeves hugged along her arms and passed her elbows. Lottie buttoned up the front of the dress, while Lizzie righted the high collar from behind. All the harsh underclothes were hidden under a pretty color, light taffeta, and dark lace.

“Jane,” Catherine called, “would you get my black slippers, please?”

It was a rare occasion to enlist the youngest’s help – as she spent so much time with her brother and avoiding her mother. Jane did seem to know where the five, including Catherine, always were in the estate. For always being so rambunctious, she knew when and how to stay silent. Jane was quick to turn away from her missus, already knowing which shoes she was talking about. There was a look on her face, which all the older girls missed, but her countless freckles stood out just a bit with how pale she had gotten at the glance of sketch Catherine held.

Catherine did not wince when her feet were locked within the barely worn boots. They pinched at her toes. Hopefully, she would break them in soon with her upcoming many adventures. William said there were a lot people in London.

There was a knock at the door that made Catherine jump.

Lizzie was the one to answer it. “Yes, what is it?”

“Mr. Northcott is ready with the horses and carriage.”

“Alright then, let him know we’ll be down shortly.”

“Yes, Miss Northcott.”

Lizzie turned around with a face-splitting grin. She nearly bounced up to her mistress. “I can’t believe this is happening.” For all her eagerness—all of their excitement—she spoke softly as she brushed her fingers along the lace collar. There were tears in her eyes.

“You’ll tell us everything when you get back, won’t you?” Lottie’s fingers whispered their touch against the sleeve.

“You know that I will.” Catherine lowered both of their hands, smiling kindly at them as she did so. “But if you will excuse me, there is something I must do before I leave.” All three of the Northcotts were escorted out with the respected, loving air that Catherine naturally exudes.”I will out shortly.”

The door clicked when locked.

Only a few hours ago, Catherine’s hands shook with a fear she had never known. Assassins are killers, worse than mercenaries. A man can see a mercenaries’ face. Assassins stuck to the shadows; dropped from above, poison in tea, a stab in the back. And she, the daughter of a Grand Master, was meant to stop such an assassin? The very idea that her father needs her help in stopping these assassins made her forget her fear. She must not be foolish. She must not let her mind and heart escape her.

Face flushed pink; her hand trembled with excitement to take out the two sketches from her corset. Miss Frye had a softer, rounder freckled face with no trace of amusement on her rather generous mouth. Mr. Frye, _her target_ , was much harsher by comparison. A sharp, square jaw, covered in a patchy dark beard, a devilish smile, and that scar.

Catherine studied them both before she left for the day; wanting to remember them even when she closed her eyes. It would be unbecoming of her to carry a sketch of someone she does not know; especially if that someone were a man. She memorized that beard, that scar, and that smile before she folded them back up and slid them under her mattress before she excited her room.

She saw no sense in destroying them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, tell me what you think! Are you liking my portrayal of Crawford Starrick? Miss Thorne? What do you think of Catherine? While Chapter Four isn't done, William is in it.


	4. The Churning Seas of London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is now, officially, the longest chapter in "To Be the Good Daughter." 
> 
> Catherine and William, a dynamic duo that I loved writing, go to an over crowded, highly polluted Whitechapel! It's all some grand affair with an Assassin nearly choking on an apple.
> 
> Ahh, symbolism and word choice. Sometimes I look at you both and think, "Is it too obvious?"

Lord Starrick and Miss Thorne stood in front of the square, blonde, and freckled coachman. William watched the windows with the hope of catching a glimpse of Miss Catherine; whereas, his master and master’s business partner patiently stared at the front double doors. As the minutes passed by, Starrick developed a worry line between his brows. Impatience wormed its way into his mind, but never doubt. They stood waiting for the young mistress of the estate to walk out; as if it were some overly important ceremony they were performing in the early afternoon. 

William stood beside the carriage with a grin on his face. Despite his face hurting and his growing sense of glee, he remained as still could be. He was nearly panting with his excitement, clean face flushed and pupils blown. He was unafraid to show his joy for the mistress. Years of imploring Miss Catherine to sneak out with him to the city, while incredibly ungentlemanly and improper, were coming to fruition. He was thrilled for her! While his master did not tell him why she was suddenly able to leave his protection, he ordered that Catherine kept safe at all costs. Of course, William would protect her with all that he had and more.

Sensing his climbing emotions, the horses pawed at the ground and their tails swished left and right. They would be leaving shortly; they heard the gates unlock not too long ago.

William felt a warmness blossom from the center of his chest. When he saw Catherine step out of the doors’ shadow that warmness grew up over his shoulders and down to his toes. There was a sort of quickness to her walk, but her demeanor was elegant. The closer she got to her father and Miss Thorne the slower her steps became under their gaze. (Her father would scowl at her recklessness.) Even the mansion’s windows felt like eyes to her; all of the servants peeked around the curtains and over ledges. Those that worked outside appeared busy, but stared at her from under their hats. Her parasol shielded her from the sun’s harsh rays, and questioning gaze of those who were not the master of the house.

Her steps did not falter. She held her head up high, looking just past her father’s shoulder to stare at William’s twinkling blue eyes. It must have been her imagination when she saw him wink at her.

With a glance, Catherine reassured herself that she would make her father proud. He stood in front her with an unreadable expression—fear, anger, pride, love, and hate were all there but unseen to everyone around him. It was a growing anxiety that he expertly hid. When his daughter was near him, he grabbed the crook of her free arm and, for a moment, Catherine (and William) feared that he had changed his mind on the whole ordeal. 

“You remember your task, my Catherine?” his voice was so low, and action so sudden, his daughter nearly missed what he had said. 

“Yes, Father, I remember.”

_A patchy beard, devilish smile, and a scar up his cheek_ , she reminded herself. 

“Good,” he led her to the carriage, and William opened the door for her with his head bowed. “You know I will be unable to follow you, my face and name are too well-known. You,” his voice was soft, breathless as he stared up her. She looked every bit of a Templar woman; sitting tall and proud, dressed in finery, perfect in every way. He held her gloved hand so tight that her knuckles began to hurt. “You are an anomaly. Outside my immediate Order—outside those gates, no one knows you even exist. Not even the Blighters. If any harm comes to you, you will tell me.” A glaring glance was passed towards Mr. Northcott. He would die if she got hurt.

“I will, Father.”

“Lord Starrick,” William spoke up, smile stifled once the old Templars turned round to the carriage, blinking at the harsh gaze his master shot at him. “You have given me the honor of traveling with you; I know London and I will keep her safe.” The young man had stepped forward with his hand over his heart and kind eyes. He spoke the truth, for while he grew up with a glimmer of ease – nearly forgetting what his parents endured during his earlier years of life – his job and hobbies required that he have a hardened body. Outside those gates, and his fancy escort uniform, William’s name is a whisper among the toughest individuals in the darkest corners. He would fight the entire Blighter gang—and the budding Rooks, and their leader—to keep Catherine safe.

“See to it that you do, Mr. Northcott, or it will be your life that needs safety.” Crawford’s hands slid away from his daughter.

“Father!” The cold threat felt like a tight grip around her heart. Surely, he wouldn’t—

William gently shut the carriage door. “You have my word. We will be back before night fall.”

As she was raised, Catherine straightened herself in her seat with eyes facing forward. She didn’t lean towards the window to say her goodbyes. Her mind was too preoccupied with her father’s threat to William. Eyes wide and constrained torso heaving, she couldn’t banish the image of William’s forever still body. Nor could she rid the made up sound of Mary’s scream—terrified, mournful, rage all blended together to create that dreadful wail. And his sisters, his poor sisters…counseling their mother and each other with wet cheeks.

Of course her father could be terrifying—What father wasn’t when his daughter and only child were concerned?—but to actually end someone so loyal to him? Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes and her throat felt tight. William was a good man with a loving family. _Father wouldn’t_ —a knock against the smallest window pane in front of her brought Catherine out of her spiraling thoughts. They were moving towards the opened gates.

“Are you still there, Miss Catherine?” William spoke with a jovial tone over the hooves and wheels.

“Yes, I’m here. Is everything alright?” Blinking her unshed tears away, she briefly saw the gates move by past the dark velvet curtains. Then, there were trees.

“Everything’s fine just needed to know where we’re going exactly.”

With a delicate smile, Catherine proudly proclaimed, “To London!”

“ **Where** in London, Miss?” Catherine could **hear** that wolfish grin on his mouth; she couldn’t stop smiling.

“Whitechapel if you please.”

“Whitechapel? Are you sure? That isn’t the most safest place, ma’am, gangs and all that. There was even a gang conquering another not too long ago.”

“I need to go there, William. Please. It’s important. I cannot say anymore than that.”

“And here I was, hoping to know why your father let you out.” He had wanted to call her father a jailor, but quickly thought better of it. She does love that man, as all daughters love their fathers. _All good fathers want others to know their daughters exist—to the right person._

“I don’t know if that will be possible.”

“Understandable, Miss. You know where to find me, if you wish to tell me what this is all about.” His voice was soft, but he listened to her and led them to Whitechapel.

“I do. Thank you.”

From what little Catherine could see, the numerous trees bled away to green nothingness. Rolling hills, sheep and cows, children playing, and sparse trees were far from her seat. She could hear the screams of the children over the surrounding noise of her cart. As soon as she heard them—“Can’t catch me! Can’t catch me! Can’t catch me!”—they were gone. Sweet memories of her playing with Lizzie and Lottie floated in her mind with the smell of fresh grass, flowers, old leather, and hay. She had loved being “the Lost Northcott” – a story of some grand adventure and Romance – their first odd sister. (Odd simply for her dark hair and eyes, while they all had golden heads and blue eyes.) Such thoughts replaced themselves with the smell of old books, stuffy rooms, her father’s cologne, and harsh voices. _“You are a Starrick,” her father would say, guiding her away by her neck, “never forget that.”_

Dirt roads eventually became paved stone, and Catherine shifted in her seat. Green grass faded to dull dirt, and blue skies tinted to gray. More and more buildings passed by her, they got closer and closer together with only a few people watching as she passed.

A tickle started in the back of her throat, to which she had tried to clear away gently. Soon she was coughing, hacking so rough that tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.

“Yeah,” William said, hearing her in the coach, “London air is not for everyone. If we keep coming here, you should get used to it.”

Once she was finally calm, Catherine dabbed at her eyes with a silken handkerchief. Then, she covered her nose and mouth with it. “What is that smell?” her voice was course.

A laugh came. “It’s simply London! We’re entering a new age! So many inventions, so little time.” William looked up at the gray sky. Billows of smoke blossomed from their factories and up to the heavens. Such machines inside those numerous factories held a promise to the future. A future meant for all. Yet, the working men, women, and even children who toiled away in those factories did not see much pay for their work. It made William’s palms itch, but he could not scratch it away. More and more people were flooding around the streets. He couldn’t ignored the other coachmen.

“Do any of these inventions have a more fragrant smell?” Catherine dabbed small droplets of her perfume onto her wrists.

“Well, there’s perfume, but that isn’t new.”

“Each one has a slightly different aroma, William.”

“Be that as it may, Miss Starrick, I doubt wives would want their husbands smelling like a bed of roses.”

“Tulips, then?”

A bark of laughter. “I would’ve gone with lilies!”

“Lilies? Whatever for?”

“They look pretty.”

“Oh, William.” If that were his only reason, Catherine would have to let Lottie borrow her herbarium so that she may teach him the variety of meanings a lily could have. Such a flower depends mostly on the color; goodness forbid if someone ever received an orange or tiger lily. Roses and tulips generally held a passionate meaning.

In his peripheral vision, William noted the amount of people staring at him as he drove by. The coach he had readied was fairly simple—brown and black with the smallest of golden accents—even the (brown) horses were underdressed as Jane advised. His youngest sister rarely steered him wrong.

Catherine sat perfectly still in the shadows, shielded by wine velvet curtains. Surely, they couldn’t see her, but she could see other coaches and a sea of unknown faces. There were other horses and angry shouts, even a crack of a whip or two. She had never seen so many people, let alone all in one place.

With practiced ease, William rides up to a hectic stable. Men and women shout at one another—ordering that they do this or that. To get some coachman his horse, to help a lady out or in, to not touch something or another person. William has to stop Ellie and Sunny with a sudden jerk on the reins a few times; they don’t like that. To Catherine it all seemed rather crude. Not even her father’s servants yelled like that or used such foul language. It made her flush.

_This must be Whitechapel_ , she thought, recalling what Mister Charles Dickens wrote.

A gasp ripped passed her lips at the violent stop of her cart. Ellie and Sunny whinny over the other horses. There are jovial shouts, “Haven’t seen you in a while, Will. Boss workin’ ya’ too hard?” A fellow horse handler slapped William on the back.

“Nonsense!” William responded with a laugh. In all these years, they hadn’t learned that Starrick was, in fact, his employer. He hoped that no one would figure it out, simply for his well-being. And now for his mistress. “If he did, I wouldn’t be here today or any other day.”

“How long will we have these lovely girls?” Augustus asked petting Ellie’s back.

“Only for the day, I’m afraid. We should return tomorrow, or at a later date, depending on my mistress’ wishes.” William rested his hand on the cart’s door handle. People were beginning to stare, to try peaking inside the carriage. Never, in all these years, had the people of Whitechapel seen William with such a cart. Lord Starrick made it abundantly he wanted to avoid such a vile place, and no one of importance paid attention to a hand.

William threw open the door so enthusiastically that Catherine jumped in her seat, clutching her parasol to her chest. The wide, curious eyes that stared up at her through the windows were beginning to terrify her. Crooked, yellow teeth even smiled up at her. Some rough, oiled, calloused hands even waved up at her. She refused to acknowledge them, only staring at the empty space in front of her. There were even more wild eyes and yellow teeth behind William.

“Miss Catherine,” William said with small hesitation. They had not discussed her surname. The name Starrick was well known throughout London, she could not use it if she wished to remain anonymous.

He offered his hand. His eyes were gentle, caring. Teeth not perfect, but familiar with a lopsided smile that she grew fond of over the years.

“We’ve arrived at Whitechapel.”

“Yes,” Catherine could barely catch her breath. If she could only focus on him—just for a moment—maybe then the world would stop spinning so fast. “Yes, of course, thank you.” Hand trembling, William’s hold on her hand was solid. Comforting. Familiar.

A delicate gloved hand was seen first, then a parasol opened above William’s head, and Catherine stepped out with all the dignity, poise, and grace she was raised to have. 

“Thank you, Mr. Northcott.”

“My, my….” Augustus quickly tore his cap off his head at the lady’s presence. Breathless and eyes wide, he couldn’t stop gawking her. 

“Miss Catherine,” William led her to the dirtied, rather smelly stable hand. “This is Mister Augustus Walker. Anytime I came here with a horse or two, he’d watch them. And they come back looking better than I left them.”

“Mr. Walker,” Catherine gave him a small curtsey. “Thank you for watching Ellie and Sunny while we are here.”

Augustus wrung his cap. His thin, graying hair defied gravity; it made her smile a bit. “It’s a pleasure, Miss, um.” Face flushed, he glanced at William. What was her family name?

“Hale.” Catherine interjected, cheeks a pale pink at the quick lie.

“It’s a pleasure, Miss Hale. I hope you enjoy Whitechapel.”

“I’m sure that I will.” A courteous smile and nod. Her upbringing told her to shake his hand, but they were filthy and occupied with his cap. Surely, he wouldn’t mind if she didn’t offer her hand.

“Miss Hale,” said William, “we should start going if we’d like to make way.” He already had an idea of where to take her.

“Yes, of course. Farewell, Mr. Walker.”

“Farewell, Miss Hale.”

Arms linked together, the finely dressed lady and the not-so finely dressed man walked towards the mass of people outside the stable doors. Those faces didn’t stop and stare at her with gaping mouths; they simply went about their business. Only a few children openly stared at her; their mothers quickly ushered them away. Quite a few weren’t. Those that weren’t did make her heart to ache, wondering where their parents were. Surely, they had someone to watch over them in the afternoon? Many of them, from her quick and curious glances, were in a similar state of Augustus: raggedly dress; muddied up, blistered hands; dusty, unkempt hair; and wide, baggy eyes. Their faces were pale and gaunt; they should be rosy and round cheeked.

William did not spare these poor children a glance. He had gotten used to seeing the orphaned children; they had even stolen some of his money before. If they stopped now, more would come and take advantage of Catherine’s bleeding heart.

If not for his guiding hand, she would’ve been swept away in this sea of people. Catherine could barely see the very sidewalk she was on. Never, in all of her life, had she seen so many people all at once. Men dapperly dressed with tailcoats and top hats, or in simple workman’s clothes. Women in travel dresses with tiny, frilly hats, or well-loved work uniforms. They talked of different things. Smells mixed and lodged themselves in Catherine’s nose. She almost felt faint at all this newness.

Even the streets were filled with people—carriages of all shapes and sizes!

Whitechapel was a churning sea of activity—of people—life. Oh, if she could only stop and paint for just a moment. Music notes floated across her mind, as well.

“Mr. Northcott,” Catherine spoke with what little air she possessed in her lungs, “where are you taking me exactly?”

“To Spitalfields Market. Perhaps it will be there that you find what you are looking for.”

“If I did, it would be incredibly lucky.” She continued to eye the sea of people.

 

Jacob Frye stood among the people at Spitalfields Market. Listening to the merchants talk and urge people to check their stalls for goods. Breads, apples, tomatoes, anything and everything a man could want. He took about of a bright red apple, smiling at the sweetness. Pockets of his Rooks stood scattered about, talking amongst themselves, keeping others in line if needed. His gang was growing by the day; people were whispering about them in the alleyways. Pops of green were all throughout Whitechapel. They were in other boroughs, but far less. Beaten or taken captive; he’d rescue them soon. Soon the Rooks will be all throughout London fighting for those who cannot.

Spitalfields Market was a sea of strangers, a mess of noise, but he reveled in it. He laughed at a passing joke he had overheard, winked at pretty lady or two, nodded at gentlemen with a smile, and made funny faces at fussy toddlers or children. He should, theoretically, be heading back to the train. Only to discuss matters that involved stopping Starrick—the Templars; he only needed their names and faces. There are three or four Templars in the City of London – a brother and sister, and one other. The Slaughterhouse Siblings, and Eveline Dipper. Now if, I can only—a bite of an apple paused itself in the side of his mouth.

William Northcott, a good man to meet and know, could hold his own in a fight and his beer, walked in Spitalfields Market with a doe-eyed woman on his arm . And it felt as if someone larger than him punched him in the chest at the sight of her. It is important to note that Jacob Frye does **not** believe in the fated “love at first sight,” but God if his heart didn’t stop beating for a second…. If he told anyone that his breath did **not** hitch in the back of his throat that would be a bald-face lie. He certainly didn’t shove one hand in his coat pocket to inconspicuously wipe the sudden sweat from his hand; the other was busy clenching the apple, which flew up to his mouth.

Wide, dilated, hazel eyes followed her.

The doe-eyed woman walked along Sunshine’s side, talked with him. She laughed behind her delicate hand when he attempted to juggle a variety of produce; he bought them of course with a sheepish grin and an apology. He did not offer his companion any of the bruised food. Was it possible for someone to look so enthralled at such a common place? Curiosity, wonderment, fleeting fear, glee all such emotions Jacob saw go across her face. Oval shaped face, but strong with delicate features. He didn’t like seeing her in fear—wide eyed, clenched jaw, pink lips in a firm line, and clawed hands—and imagined that such negativities didn’t suit her person. Jacob much preferred to see her smiling.

Finishing the last of the red apple, the Assassin walked up to her with a swagger in his step, an easy grin, and a puffed out chest. He could not stop staring at her.

A gentle smile was on her lips—she had wonderfully white, straight teeth. Bright brown eyes soft, dark lashes just barely kissed the top of her cheeks.

She was smiling down at an orange, to which she cradled in her white gloves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, I almost had Jacob nickname William Willie. Then, I remember "Willie" in British means "penis." I mean...it kinda fits! To save face (and keep Catherine's heart rate down) I was advised to go with Sunshine. I will admit, I had some...apprehension regarding Catherine's reaction to Crawford's threat to William. What were your thoughts on it?
> 
> Now that all of the Northcott's were introduced, what do you guys think of them? More should be revealed later on, just as they should be all in one room together with and without Catherine. And another thing! I would like to point out RIGHT NOW that this Northcott family has NO connections to the Northcott serial killer--Wineville Chicken Coop Murders. Again, MY Northcott original characters have NO connections to the Northcott serial killer. Thank you.
> 
> Now that that's outta the way, how did you like Jacob's introduction? Where do you think it's gonna go? Cause now the real fun begins!


End file.
